


Before it Buries Me

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Episode Related, Established Relationship, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 19:26:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3393461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why are we here?” Aramis sighs out, shucking off his coat. There’s a chill in the air, but that isn’t why Aramis shivers when Porthos turns to look at him.  Or: How Aramis Found His Answer. (Coda fic for 2x05)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before it Buries Me

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, I continue to be trash and write only portamis stuff. Oh look, I make the Athos-centric episode into an opportunity for some portamis pwp. But it was actually kind of wonderful to watch the episode and see everyone walking around and suddenly not in their coats and say, "Porthos and Aramis totally fucked during this montage." In terms of timing, this takes place the night before the fighting montage shenanigans, admittedly, but oh well. All that said, clearly this is a 2x05 missing scene fic. 
> 
> Going to post this before I find the one (or two) unfortunate typos in this fic, because there is always one or two unfortunate typos despite my best efforts.

The sun goes down and there’s still many hours away before sunrise, before they can see just who will stand with them to protect the town – and Aramis is tired, so tired, but it’s a deep ache he’s grown used to over the long months. Aramis isn’t sure how many he’s expecting to show up and, really, he should be getting some rest – but everyone’s a little restless. Naturally, he seeks out Porthos – because what else can he do but that? – and finds him sitting with his back up against an old horse hitch behind the inn, cleaning out the spare guns they have laid out. It should really be Aramis’ job, since he’s always been better at handling the weaponry, and his fingers are more nimble for the work, but he knows Porthos better than most, knows he’ll search for any means to keep himself busy when his mind is jogging far and ahead of him. He often doesn’t sleep the day before a large battle like this – or as much of a battle as it can be considered, given the circumstances. 

“Hey,” he greets, warm and gentled, his tone unmistakably fond. He takes Porthos in – searching for any signs of distress. He doesn’t know, exactly, the nature of his and the Captain’s disagreements, but he’s fine-tuned enough to Porthos to always know when he’s distressed, to always know when he wants to talk. 

Porthos looks up at him, face twisted up in his concentration – although it relaxes when he sees that it’s Aramis approaching him with a little burning light, sitting it down beside Porthos’ own. He meets Aramis’ eyes and his expression warms under Aramis’ attention. 

“Hey,” he says in return, smiles a bit that flashes in the lantern light, and ducks back down to work at the gun. He asks, “Athos?” 

“With d’Artagnan, I think,” Aramis says, leaning back against the wall to the inn and giving Porthos a long look, down and then back up again. “Are you alright?” 

“Sure,” Porthos says, shaking his head as he cleans out his gun. It isn’t dismissal, not with Aramis, but a forced brevity perhaps. 

“You shouldn’t do that by darkness, it’ll ruin your beautiful eyes,” Aramis hums out and Porthos snorts, the corner of his mouth tilting up in a small smile. It’s the best way with Porthos – to tease him a little, to inch his way towards the true thing he wants to ask and then jump for it before Porthos can scold him for walking on eggshells with him. 

“My eyes are fine,” Porthos protests and he laughs a little – a short puff of air, but he does set down the gun he’s working on in the little row of guns he’s cleaned up to that point. There’s four of them. He heaves himself to his feet and moves to Aramis’ side, leaning back against the wall with him. “You don’t have to worry so much.”

“It’s you,” Aramis dismisses, and it’s enough for the two of them. It’s Porthos, so of course he’ll worry. It’s Porthos, so he won’t push him if he doesn’t want to talk. There isn’t much to talk about, regardless, it seems – the heart of the matter is that Treville is keeping something from Porthos. And Aramis knows that well. And he can sympathize with that gnawing, frustrated need to _know_ what the Captain is hiding. He can only hope that it doesn’t leave Porthos feeling as broken as the truth about Savoy had left him. It’s one thing for him to accept the orders his Captain had to give, to know that his Captain regretted and didn’t wish it, but it had had to happen – it’s one thing for it to be Aramis on the receiving end of secrets and lies. 

It’s another thing entirely to keep something from Porthos, for the greater good. It’s bad enough that Aramis himself should keep secrets from Porthos. Whatever it is, he hopes that Treville’s reasons are well and good. Because he also knows that Porthos will likely stop at nothing to find out what it is he wants to know. Stubborn as he is. Beautiful and stubborn. 

“Should we join them in drinking?” Porthos asks – he tilts his head, looks down at Aramis with a quieted smile. His smile is scorching, warms Aramis down to his core. He’s always loved Porthos’ smile. 

“I think Athos will be content with d’Artagnan’s company,” Aramis sighs. “You know how he is with the drinking. He likes it when d’Artagnan joins him. You might need to carry him to bed later, though.”

Porthos nods absently, and doesn’t press it. He doesn’t seem eager to go back, anyway. Instead, he tips his head back and looks up into the night sky. Aramis follows his gaze, traces his eyes over lines of constellations. 

“You’re worrying too much,” Porthos sighs. “I said I’m fine.” Before Aramis can protest, Porthos adds, “As long as I focus on other things, it doesn’t… niggle at me. And really – you’re worrying too much. You always do.” 

“Yes,” Aramis says, can attest to that strategy over the years of desperately trying to not think of things, to not comb over every little detail over and over again. 

“Well,” Porthos says, shrugging. “I’ll likely have plenty to do tomorrow, yeah? All of us will.” 

Aramis nods, and they lapse into a long silence. Porthos studies the stars, then squats down to rearrange their lanterns so one is hooked over the horse’s hitch, the other on a nearby barrel, alongside Porthos’ own gun. It bathes Porthos’ face in a soft light, and he’s beautiful – and true to his word. There’s a hint of sadness to his eyes, but otherwise he’s fine. Porthos can be patient, when it suits him. Stubborn, too, as Aramis knows well. He knows how to tuck thoughts away and think about them later, knows how to live in the moment, knows how to focus on the good and the present. 

But something’s been niggling at Aramis’ own mind the entire time they’ve been here, ever since Athos’ point-blank refusal melted away into a grudging acceptance. 

“Why are we here?” Aramis sighs out, shucking off his coat and letting it drop down over a water barrel that the lantern isn’t sitting on. A few of his weapons and his sash join it. There’s a chill in the air, but that isn’t why Aramis shivers when Porthos turns to look at him. 

“For Athos,” Porthos says easily enough, like it’s a simple matter – loyal to a fault. Aramis smiles a little, because for all the world, Porthos is always devastatingly loyal and loving.

“But he doesn’t want to be here, either,” Aramis presses. “It’s not our fight – he certainly wants no part of it.” 

Porthos eyes him and then pushes himself forward off the wall and turns, getting up into Aramis’ space in a way that, years and years ago, when they first met, he thought would intimidate Aramis – now, it just leaves Aramis breathless for a moment, his gaze dropping down to the deep vee of Porthos’ shirt beneath his unbuttoned coat, the line of his throat and the full pout of his lips. 

He glances up at Porthos in time to see the light of recognition spark in Porthos’ eyes, seeing the way Aramis looks at him. If Aramis felt warmed by Porthos’ smile before, the look he gives him now leaves him burning. Aramis’ lips quirk into a small, secretive smile. 

“Cause it’s the right thing to do,” Porthos says, his voice taut and fierce. “Nobody else cares about these people – so it’s our job to care about them.”

Aramis studies his face, then lifts his hand so he can brush his palm across his cheek, thumb touching at the bottom line of the scar over his eye. Porthos doesn’t recoil or sink into the touch, just lets him touch at it, although his eyes do go soft in the lantern light. Aramis’ other hand drops, tugs at one button slip to his coat, so he can brush his fingers down over his chest, feels the short bristle of his chest hair. He settles it down over his heart and looks back up at Porthos.

“You’re so good-hearted,” Aramis murmurs, will always marvel in the face of Porthos’ protectiveness, that deep sense of equality and justice. Hard-working and loyal. Beautiful when blazing with his own determination. 

The side of Porthos’ mouth twitches, threatens a light smile, and he leans into the touch instead, letting Aramis’ hand cup to his cheek. They stay like that, breathing in each other’s space – a quiet and tentative moment, breathless out there in the open as they are, encased in a fire-lighted circle, the rest of the world dark and stretching out before them. 

“What if no one shows up tomorrow? Will you be able to walk away from them?” Aramis asks, genuinely asks, reaches up with his other hand and slides his hand underneath Porthos’ bandana so he can curl into his hair, the hand to his cheek shifting so he can brush his thumb along his cheekbone. He watches and feels the way Porthos’ jaw clenches, the way his lips thin out, his nostrils flare. The thought of abandoning anyone utterly disgusting to him. Aramis can make light of it all he wants, but he saw the way Porthos watched Athos walk away earlier that day – saw the disappointment etched there. 

“I don’t know,” Porthos finally admits, and it’s that honesty that makes Aramis’ knees wobble for a moment – weighed down by Porthos’ own willingness for vulnerability. Aramis breathes out, bites at his lip, and feels Porthos’ heart stutter beneath his palm for half a beat. “What can we do, if they’re unwilling to stand up?” 

“I know,” Aramis sighs out. He can’t stop wondering just why they’d stay, regardless, but he can understand Porthos’ fervor, can understand that Porthos is looking into a reflection – of desperate people who only need and want help. 

It’s dangerous, to be pressed up as they are like this. The hand on Porthos’ face is unmistakably intimate. The soft look in his eyes betrays the way he feels for Porthos, the breath between them scarcely a hair apart. He can feel Porthos’ words ghosting over his mouth. He can read every line and every scar across his face and down his neck, even in this dim light. 

It’s because it’s dangerous that Aramis feels a breathless thrill at it. 

“Will you be alright?” he asks again.

Porthos rolls his eyes and drops a hand to his waist, pinching at his hip and smiling when Aramis just manages to bite back a yelp of surprise. “ _Yes._ Stop worrying. I’ll _tell you_ if I’m not okay.” 

Aramis sighs, but does make himself relax, lets himself believe Porthos – looks in his eyes and sees that Porthos is telling him the truth. And he will always believe and believe in Porthos. 

“Then I suppose we should talk about more interesting things,” Aramis says, and lets his voice lighten, purposefully coy. 

“I suppose,” Porthos parrots back, and there’s a hint to a smile in his voice and it touches at his eyes – and that. _That’s_ what makes Aramis finally relax, finally breathe out and melt into Porthos. 

“Kiss me?” he whispers, once they lapse into a silence, once it’s clear that Porthos won’t speak any more – desperately, desperately wanting to ease that furrow to his brow, desperately wanting to reassure him that, if the roles were ever reversed, he would always, always defend Porthos. 

Porthos laughs, soft and graveled out, and his expression is distinctly fond as he looks at him. He lifts a questioning eyebrow and Aramis just shrugs, tilts his chin down and looks at him up from his lashes. He watches Porthos’ eyes darken, and then he tilts his head, licks his lips. 

“Please?” he asks. 

Porthos hardly needs more convincing than that. “Whatever you want.”

The kiss is chaste at first, gentled and leisurely, despite being out in the open like this, despite being lighted up in the darkness. But Aramis feels warmed from the inside out, and he quickly melts against him, drops his arms over his shoulders so he can wrap them up, slide his fingers into his hair and knead encouraging circles into the back of his neck, trying to draw him in closer and kiss him and kiss him and kissing him until his mouth is swollen and tender. 

They stay like that for a moment more, and then Porthos breathes in through his nose and steps closer, steps so that Aramis is wedged up between him and the wall of the inn. Aramis can’t hold back the small whine that floats up against the back of his teeth, and it’s sucked from his mouth by all of Porthos’ kisses, mouth slanted against his, teeth grazing against his lower lip. Slowly, but surely, the kiss grows more heated, grows more precise in its course, drawing out Aramis’ sighs and little noises of pleasure, fingernails digging into the back of Porthos’ neck, hanging off of him, anchoring himself to him. 

They kiss, Aramis unable to concentrate for anything but Porthos’ mouth against his. He breathes him in, gasps and clings to him. Porthos responds in turn, sucking at his bottom lip and pressing closer against him, kissing him deeper. He makes a soft, pleased sound when Aramis moans a little, kisses him back, uses every little trick he knows to bite at his mouth, slide into his mouth, breathe him in. He can feel Porthos’ tongue against his teeth, licking into his mouth, can taste him and breathe him in, feel him – Porthos, in every one of his senses, in every part of him, nestled so deep into his heart that there’s no hope of him ever getting out again. But that’s just how it should be. 

When they break apart, Porthos just murmurs, quiet, “We’re outside.” 

Aramis’ whine is downright ridiculous, and he can’t hold it in, and it’s too late anyway – Porthos’ worried expression becomes something more heated, and he smiles low in the dim lantern light. Aramis’ knees really are weak now, that look dark and fiery and _promising_. He curls his fingers against the tail of his bandana, tugs playfully, tries to recover some dignity and just _stare_ at Porthos, to try to get him to move – closer, or further away, to tug him down or bend him down over a barrel – he doesn’t _care_. He just wants anything. He wants anything and everything Porthos could give him. 

“You know The Stare hasn’t worked on me in ages,” Porthos teases. 

“Oh, my darling,” Aramis laughs, “You’d be scandalized by how often it’s worked on you.” 

Porthos growls a bit and leans in, kissing him again – and it’s hot and messy, more determined than the last one, and Aramis is far from complaining. He can imagine what they must look like, like this – pressed up as they are, kissing as they are, out in the open for just about anyone to see. Something pushes up his throat that’s akin to a giggle, but he ignores it, ignores the self-satisfied urge to whisper out a _See? Every time,_ and instead just bites at Porthos’ mouth and kisses him deeper, curls into him and breathes him in. 

He kisses Porthos with a soft moan, lets little whimpers escape into Porthos’ mouth and strokes kisses into him, dragging him in closer – clinging to him. He wants more. He always wants more and there can never be enough of Porthos. He wants Porthos against him, every inch of them pressing together, skin on skin. There will never be enough of that. 

He doesn’t know how long they kiss like that, all Aramis is focusing on is pouring every ounce of support and love and desperation he feels into that kiss – and soon all his sacrificing thoughts of protection melt away in favor of just _feeling_ him, because he’s pressed up against the wall to the inn and Porthos is pressed up to him, and he’s a long and solid line of muscle and heat, and then Porthos shifts his hips just slightly so they slot together, so he can feel the even hotter line of his cock sliding up against his own. 

Aramis gasps, breaking the kiss and letting out a tight little whine, breathless and clinging to Porthos’ shoulders like his life depends on it. 

“Porthos,” he whispers and he doesn’t even try to hide how much the name comes out as a plea. 

“Mm,” Porthos agrees, and rocks his hips forward – and they both groan at the sensation, perhaps a little louder than intended, but Aramis knows Porthos well, knows how he can get carried away and always does so happily, always gets carried away with Aramis right along for the ride. 

Aramis’ hands move down over him, tugging off his coat so that it drops down at their feet, so he can run his hands over the softer fabric of his shirtsleeves, trace his fingers along the line of fabric at his neck, touch at his chest and the beginning of one scar he knows intimately well – shaped himself, years ago – and leans up to kiss him again. He ruts shamelessly against Porthos, finds Porthos’ hips shuddering to meet his in turn, and it’s quick work between they’re both hard and pressed up to the other. Porthos drags his big, strong hands down over him, teases at him without ever touching actual skin, just skims down along his sides and over his chest, bunching up his shirt and Aramis groans his name into the kiss. Then he moves them up over his neck, cups his jaw, and kisses him – gentled but possessive, and Aramis sighs, happy. Porthos rubs little circles along his jaw with his fingertips and it’s utterly distracting, and Aramis rolls his hips forward in the same little circles against his cock, rutting there. 

“You’re pretty,” Porthos whispers, which from anyone else would just be juvenile, would likely make Aramis pout for the lack of poetry to it, but from Porthos it just makes him preen, and he smiles helplessly at him as Porthos tugs playfully on his braces, drags his thumbs down to toy with the little leather flowers at the base there before tugging them off his shoulders, letting them fall down at his side. His trousers slip just slightly over his hips and Aramis bites his lip, smiling at him.

“Only for you,” Aramis laughs in agreement.

“Bullshit,” Porthos barks out a sharp laugh as he ducks his head and nuzzles and bites at his neck, licking down along the column of it, mouths over his adam’s apple and sucks a biting kiss at the hollow of his throat until Aramis bows his back, tilts his head back and hums out his pleasure. 

“In this particular moment, only for you, then,” Aramis relents, and he’s grinning wickedly as Porthos drags his lips down his neck, the rasp of his beard burning in its wake against his skin. His voice gets a touch reverent when he says, “You’re beautiful, too.” 

Porthos snorts, but at this point he knows better than to question Aramis’ compliments, as it usually devolves into Aramis mouthing over every inch of his skin and clarifying just which parts of him are most beautiful. That he accepts it now, that his eyes seem to light up is enough for Aramis. When Porthos smiles at him, Aramis can feel it down over his skin, deep into his bones and nestle in his heart. When Porthos smiles, Aramis feels lighter. 

Porthos sucks a bruise against his collarbone, kissing and biting and Aramis sighs out happily, squirming, rocking his hips forward, wanting to keep close, wanting to keep Porthos close. His fingers skim over his ribs, cup his hips, slide down behind his back and traces up his back and back down again until his hands settle at the hollow points on the small of his back, tethering him close. 

And then Porthos’ hands are on his belt, tugging it free and Aramis shudders a little, breath hitching. 

Porthos laughs, bites at his throat. “Don’t get too excited. I can’t do much.” 

Aramis’ response is to whine, because, really, Porthos is a creative and wonderful man who can find many exciting manner of ways to do as _much_ as he’d like. What he’s doing, instead, is teasing at him, and Aramis’ response is merely to wrap one leg around Porthos’, drag his foot up the back of his calf and pull him in closer, with the hope that Porthos will get that belt off and touch him already. 

“You could if you wanted,” he says, just to reiterate his point. “You could do anything.”

Porthos’ smile turns a touch gentle and Aramis knows he’s hit on something – can see it in his eyes – and his expression is one of someone who finds Aramis ridiculous but also unbearably wonderful. Whenever Porthos looks at him with such fondness, Aramis has no idea what to do with himself. And like that, pressed against the outside wall to the inn, he’s breathless looking back at Porthos. Looking at Porthos watch him as if Aramis is everything and the world – that he is someone worthy and someone precious. 

Porthos presses kisses all over Aramis’ face – his eyelids, his cheeks, the angles of his jaw, the dip of his chin, and his hands are firm and gentle on him, moving over him, and it seems he’ll content himself with just that before he shifts and returns to just kissing him – slow and perfect. Aramis will never be able to resist him or this. He’ll never want to. 

“Of course you’d say that,” Porthos says, and then his voice shifts into something more teasing and less vulnerable, and he slides his hand down over him to cup him through his trousers, shifting closer, breathing out against his mouth, “But you’d say anything if it meant I’d fuck you.” 

Aramis whimpers, but also feels he has to stubbornly chase this thought – he knows he hasn’t had the best track record with romance in his life, especially lately, especially with his longing and his dragging thoughts. But Porthos. Porthos is a constant, and he’ll never be able to be without him. So he responds with leaning in closer, so his words brush against his mouth along with his lips, “I’d say it anywhere and at any time. You can do anything. You’re wonderful. You’re _perfect_.” 

Porthos’ head falls forward and their foreheads press together, and in truth Aramis isn’t prepared for the sudden shift in mood, from heated and frenzied to something more gentled, and he wraps his arms around Porthos’ neck, anchors him down against him. He closes his eyes and they stay pressed like that for half a moment. 

Porthos shifts a little, one hand reaching up to cup his cheek, thumb digging into the spot just behind his ear and kissing him until they’re both breathless. It is demanding, it is ownership, and Aramis relents – lets himself sink into that kiss, lets Porthos feel just how loved he truly is. Every time. Anywhere. He kisses him and when they break the kiss, Aramis heaves in a deep breath while Porthos swallows down deep gulps of air, struggling – overwhelmed. 

“Always,” Aramis whispers, because he has to say something, because sobbing out his love to him will only ever be too much.

“Yes,” Porthos replies and Aramis knows he understands. 

And then, quiet as can be, almost tentative, Aramis adds, “Although I really do want you to fuck me.”

He’s rewarded with one of Porthos’ bright, deep belly laughs – the kind that makes Aramis’ own belly turn to mush instead – and he grins a little, helpless with it, grateful for that sound he’d hoped to hear. 

“Well,” Porthos says. “I should do as the gentleman asks.” 

“Please,” Aramis starts and then makes a delighted gasp of surprise when Porthos spins him around and shoves him up against the wall, pressing up to him, hands dragging down his chest and stomach. Aramis keens, louder than he meant to, but can’t even be ashamed by his reaction. Not if it means this. 

“How should I do it, you think?” Porthos asks, and then he’s pressing up against him closer, a solid line along his back. Aramis groans a little when the hand on his stomach fists in his shirt and untucks it enough to slip down beneath his trousers, palms at his cock in a way that’s nothing but a slow drag. And then his fingers, blunt and firm, warm and comforting, curl around his cock and tug once, squeezing at the base. He’s unfair with it, does exactly what Aramis loves to feel, coupled with the hard line of Porthos’ own cock pressing up against his backside. 

Aramis whines, loud, clawing at the wall to the inn as Porthos strokes him – dragging down slow at first and then speeding up in a merciless pace, before slowing yet again. He rocks his hips back, tries to coax him closer, coax him to give in and go deeper, to just bend him down and fuck him, preparation be damned. But he knows Porthos – he knows that Porthos will take care of him. Knows that for all his strength, Porthos will only ever take care of him. 

But Porthos is laughing at the shell of his ear, a grazing of teeth there so he can suck and bite at his ear and his jaw, peppering kisses over all available skin. Aramis groans weakly and he can feel Porthos’ grin as he kisses over him and whispers, “You want me to fuck you? Right out here? What will they say if they caught you? What would they do if they _heard_ you?” 

Aramis whines out and wriggles his hips. He should fear the very idea, the very idea should make him go soft with fear – but instead he feels more frenzied, feels as if he is on fire. 

“You think there’s someone in there?” Porthos asks, kissing along his jaw and knocking on the wall of the inn above where Aramis’ hands are fisted against the wood. “Think they can hear you? Think they’re wondering what kind of obscene things you’re getting up to back here?” 

“ _Porthos_ ,” Aramis gasps out. 

“I know you want me to fuck you,” Porthos whispers and rocks his hips forward. He lets go of his cock, both hands tugging at his trousers until they slip down over the swell of his ass. Aramis makes a soft keening sound, but Porthos only lets go of him, and Aramis listens to the sound of a belt coming undone behind him. He almost gasps out in pleasure, wondering just what to expect – but then he feels Porthos’ cock sliding between his thighs instead. They both wriggle a little to get the clothes out of the way as best they can, but Aramis still whimpers and clenches his thighs together to give him that tightness. Porthos continues, quiet, “I’d fuck you right here, if I could. But we both need to be in fit condition tomorrow. I can’t have you sore, can’t have you thinking only about me when we’re meant to be protecting these people.” 

Aramis tips his head back, gasps out a little and nods barely, whining for it, wishing for more and knowing he won’t get it. Porthos lifts his hand away, licks at the palm and then squeezes it between Aramis’ thigh, slicking him up as best he can considering it all – but there will only be friction and Aramis loves the friction, in the end. 

“Guess I could use my mouth, yeah? Don’t have any oil here, but that could work, could work you open that way,” Porthos says, and he sounds deceptively cheerful and conversational, but his voice is laced with his own desire, with his own barely restrained need, and that more than the words itself is what gets Aramis to start writhing back against him. Porthos laughs, breathless, grips him tight to hold him in place. “You’d like that, yeah? Working you open with my tongue and fingers?” 

Aramis nods – because he would, and he loves it. He loves the hot drag of Porthos’ blunt fingers, loves that friction and that heat, spit and mouth only enough to guide the way and it’d leave him sore, painfully sore in the morning, but Aramis _loves_ it, loves to feel Porthos long after he’s gone, to feel the burn of his body pressed up to his, the phantom ghost of his hands bruising fingerprints against his hips, the girth of his cock pressed inside of him, the scrape of his teeth against his neck as he drags Aramis back against him, uses Aramis with such strength that only ever means he’s protected and loved – only ever means he trusts Aramis to not get hurt. 

“You could make me come,” Aramis offers, breathless, wondering if he’ll actually do it – if he’ll wrap his hand around him, stroke him off until he’s coming at his mercy, use his come to work him open, until he’s shivering and desperate for it. 

“Mm,” Porthos hums, “You’d be all sensitive.”

Aramis nods eagerly, knows exactly what he’d be like from experience under Porthos’ large hands – shuddering and sensitive to any touch, but pliant and open and unresisting as Porthos thrusts into him, that same burning friction making him want to claw at the inn’s wall all over again. 

“This will have to do,” Porthos says. “You’ll just have to imagine what it’d feel like if I could get inside you now.”

And a hand presses into the cleft of his ass and Aramis groans. He bucks his hips forward and sighs as Porthos slips down two fingers, teasing at him without pressing in, just pressing against him with enough pressure for Aramis to shudder with just the promise of it. He strokes his knuckles down the cleft of his ass and to the sensitive spot just behind his balls, shifts forward and cups him like that, dragging his hands down over his thighs. Aramis wriggles his hips, braces himself against the wall and ducks his head, just moaning quietly with his desire – wishing, _wishing_ that he could just get fucked like this. 

“I’ll fuck you just as you want when we get back home – safe and sound,” Porthos whispers and bites down hard at his neck. 

Aramis groans.

“So be sure to come back safe,” Porthos says, conversationally but there’s a heat to his voice that betrays his concern, licking at his neck, nuzzling to the line of his jaw – and all Aramis can do is nod, drop one hand down to cover one of Porthos’, rock his hips back against him.

“You too,” he whispers. “Don’t you dare leave me with a promise like that.”

Porthos is smiling against the line of his jaw, and kisses him – softer this time. “Never. You’re stuck with me.”

“Don’t pretend that wasn’t obvious from the beginning,” Aramis whispers.

“Never,” Porthos says again and kisses his ear. “I love it.” 

They move in silence after that for a few minutes, Porthos guiding the hand that Aramis holds back down to Aramis’ cock, curling up around him and stroking in time to the steady strokes of his hips, and if Aramis ducks his head enough so he can see Porthos’ cock sliding between his thighs. The friction is there, nothing there to slick up the way really, and Aramis squirms occasionally to get his cock to press up further against him – but it’s enough, and it’s Porthos, and he feels like he’s suffocating with it, just imagining what it’d feel like to be fucked like this, out here in the open like this. Porthos’ sounds are addicting – he’s grunting and moaning behind him and when Aramis clenches his thighs or rolls his hips back in a leisured manner, he can feel Porthos’ cock twitch between his legs. 

He groans, loud, shaking a little under Porthos’ hold but knowing he has no fear of Porthos letting go of him – that Porthos’ got him, through and through. He shifts, bows backward enough so he can wrap one arm up around the back of Porthos’ neck, keeping him pressed up to him and moving with him – and it’s not long before he’s clenching and unclenching his thighs around Porthos’ cock, mimicking the movement of Porthos’ hand around him as he squeezes him. It’s Porthos’ turn to groan, loud and unrestrained, and in the stillness and quiet of the night, illuminated in the lantern light as they are, it sends a shocking thrill down Aramis’ spine.

“We really will be caught,” Aramis says, and he should be scared, he should be frightened and terrified of the very thought – but it’s difficult to feel any fear when he’s wrapped up in Porthos’ like this, sweat clinging his clothes to his body, feeling the slip of Porthos’ cock against him, knowing just how terribly Porthos’ wants him. How terribly he wants Porthos. 

“Maybe you should be quieter, then,” Porthos whispers out, and squeezes tight around his cock. 

Aramis’ breath hitches in the way that means he’s close to coming, and he can feel it cresting against his bones and down to the pit of his stomach, everything tingling and electrified, and only Porthos could leave him feeling this heavy and light at once, feel that if his legs would give out, Porthos would still have him locked down in his arms, shoved up against the inn like this. 

“Maybe,” Aramis laughs.

“Or maybe I should try to see if I can get you louder,” Porthos muses, more to himself than Aramis, but loud enough and slow enough that it’s clearly meant for show, clearly meant to get a rise out of Aramis. And it works. Aramis shudders at the thought, shudders at all the things Porthos could do to him. “I know that sound,” Porthos whispers against his ear. He can’t stop biting and licking over him, down along his jaw and ear, to his neck. “Means you want me to go harder, want me to go faster. Means you wish I was properly fucking you. Do you think anyone hearing you in there can tell what that sound means?” Aramis makes that same breathless whimpering sound, arching up, pressing back desperately against Porthos’ cock, tilts his head. Porthos groans too, low and breathless against his ear. “Yeah, I bet they could. You’re _shameless_.” 

“Only for you, my love,” Aramis manages to moan out, lips quirking into a glib smile. Or, at least, he tries to around the moans and gasps he’s making, fueled on by Porthos’ own sounds pressed up against his ear. 

“Don’t come yet,” Porthos whispers when he can sense the shift in Aramis’ breathing, can feel the desperate thrusts of his hips. He squeezes around the base of his cock. “Not until I’m sucking you off.”

Aramis practically sobs with the thought and he nods his head, desperate for it, rocking his hips back so that Porthos’ cock slides into his thighs, envisions the way it’ll feel when they’re back in Paris, when Porthos will shove him down onto the bed, forceful and precise, how he’ll work Aramis open for what will feel like hours and all he’ll be able to feel in the morning is Porthos. 

Porthos pulls away from him and Aramis really does sob, slumping a little, but lets Porthos maneuver him. He’s turned around and pressed up against the wall, and Aramis just drinks Porthos in. He still has most of his clothes on, his trousers slumping down over his hips, like Aramis’, and Porthos just drags his eyes down his chest, shirt clinging to him, and to the pleasant curve of his cock. He almost reaches for it but before he can manage it, Porthos is kneeling before him, pushing his shirt up and kissing over his stomach in biting, teasing little nips, one hand curling around his cock again and squeezing at the base to keep him from coming. 

“ _Porthos_ ,” Aramis whines. “Please.” 

The act of begging, of letting go and just feeling everything, will always be one of Aramis’ favorite parts. That part where Porthos drives him so close to the edge that it can only take a moment for him to tumble over completely. The tension bleeds from his body even when there’s a tightness to his hips that just wishes for something to thrust up into. But Porthos is grinning at him in a wicked and self-satisfied grin. He feels full up as it is, regardless – full up on Porthos’ smiles, on that heavy feeling of love and possession, and he’s overwhelmed and never wants to feel anything but overwhelmed in the face of Porthos’ beauty and perfection. 

Porthos looks up at him, presses a sloppy kiss to the line of skin just above his cock, and Aramis bites his lip to try to at least have some semblance of silence – knows they are being too loud, knows that someone could come looking for them, knows that someone might have already seen them and it’d be too late. But there’s that curl of danger jagging through him again, leaving him feeling on edge, leaving him feel like he can hardly breathe for the excitement of it. 

And then Porthos sinks his mouth down onto his cock and Aramis just manages to bite back a strangled shout. 

He rips Porthos’ bandana off his head, throwing it down onto the dirt so he can sink his hands into his hair, holds tight and rocks his hips up, thrusting into Porthos’ mouth with no fear of choking him, knowing that Porthos could pin him against the wall easily, pin him down and keep him from moving. Knows that Porthos could always use his strength against him – and only ever uses it _for_ him. 

Porthos slides his mouth down over him, makes it sloppy and obscene, bobbing his head forward to swallow down around his cock – and Aramis gasps and shudders, thrusts forward to meet his mouth. Porthos’ mouth and tongue and lips all pillow against him, slide down over him and nuzzle, mouthing out filthy kisses against the head of his cock and working down, then leaning back into swallow around him. And Aramis is already close, so close, that it isn’t long before he’s just moaning, unrestrained, holding tight to Porthos’ hair. 

Porthos is grinning up at him as he mouths over his cock. “Guess I should have had you do this – if only it’d keep you quiet. You really do want to be caught, don’t you?” 

Aramis gasps out something between a laugh and a moan, and writhes when Porthos curls his mouth around the head of his cock, slicking him up and swallowing him down. 

“It – certainly… would make for a memorable night,” he somehow manages to get out around the moans. 

“You love the danger,” Porthos whispers as he licks around the base of his cock, slides back up, tongue and lips curled around him – and Aramis can only nod. It’s the truth. He loves the danger – he always has. It’s gotten him into trouble more often than not, but – with the words, at least, something slots into place and he just gives in. 

He should go slower – he usually does. He usually starts with a controlled, slow roll of his hips into Porthos’ willing mouth. He’s usually more finessed then this, but he’s so close, and Porthos is so gorgeous, and it’s dark and the air is chilled. Instead of setting a steady pace, of rocking into Porthos’ mouth inch by inch and the back out again, he just lets his body drag forward, speeds up and grasps tight at his hair, clenching his fingers tight. 

“Porthos,” he sobs out.

Porthos draws back enough to look up at him, kisses the head of his cock – and sinfully, sinfully because he _knows_ what it does to Aramis, drags jus the whisper of teeth across the slit of his cock. “Go on,” he says, looking up at him. “Go on, Aramis.” 

So Aramis obeys him. He always does. 

He’s loud, he’s unrestrained, and he rocks desperately into Porthos’ mouth, only managing a mumbled shout before he’s coming. Porthos drinks him down, shoves his hips back against the wall and bobs his head down over him, swallowing him down and milking him dry, tongue pressing along the underside of his cock. Aramis thrusts weakly, but makes no complaints to being manhandled, makes no complaints to Porthos taking control. He’s always in control. 

Once he’s spent, Porthos pulls back with a few playful licks. 

Aramis whimpers and tugs on his hair. “Please – you’re too far away.”

Porthos grins up at him and soon rises to his feet, kissing him deep and sloppy so Aramis can taste himself. They stay pressed up together like that, and after a moment Aramis shifts, bends his knees and jumps up. Porthos catches him easily and slams him up against the inn’s wall so he can continue kissing him – and Aramis just curls his arms around his neck and his legs around his waist, rocking his hips forward to give Porthos’ own neglected cock some much needed friction. They kiss and kiss, and Porthos groans. Aramis swallows down all his sounds, needy for it, desperate for it. 

Moaning into his kisses, Aramis can feel how thick and perfect Porthos is, how desperately he needs him, too, and he knows that Porthos won’t last much longer. He bites down on his kiss, sucks a few short ones against his jaw and presses kisses down his neck. He runs his hands over his shoulders and to his chest, licking and pressing short kisses to his neck and shoulder, tugging his shirt out of the way when he can. And all the while, Porthos holds him up like it’s easy, like it’s nothing. 

“So perfect,” Aramis whispers into his mouth and swallows down Porthos’ happy chuckle – delights that he can feel it at all. 

They stay like that, Aramis eventually just needing to kiss him and thus does so. Porthos holds him, tender and protective, possessive, kissing him like he’s precious. And to him, he is precious. Aramis holds to him, still shaking in the aftermath of his own orgasm, oversensitive when he ruts against Porthos, can feel how much Porthos needs him. 

“Porthos,” he whispers.

“Got you,” Porthos reassures, rolls his hips forward so that his cock is sliding against the jut of his hip, holding him tight against the inn. 

“Wait,” Aramis whispers as they’re swapping kisses. Then Aramis whispers out his name and untangles from the warm protection of Porthos’ arms. Instead, he sinks down to his knees. 

He lets Porthos angle his face upwards, one thumb hooking into his mouth and drawing it open so he can slip his cock inside. Aramis keeps his mouth open wide, tongue brushing at the underside and relaxed so that Porthos can use him, fingers curled up tight into his hair as he fucks into his mouth, guiding him forward and using him. Aramis closes his eyes, still shuddering in the aftermath of his own release, and lets Porthos use him, pliant and open to him as he always is. He groans weakly, happy to drink him down when Porthos finally comes. 

Instead of dragging Aramis to his feet, Porthos falls to his knees again to meet him, and they wrap up in each other, kissing sloppily – but unhurried now, just an exchange of breath and teeth, Aramis whispering out his name and Porthos murmuring out how pretty he looks, how much he wants him, how much he always wants him. That, more than anything, gets Aramis to melt into his arms until there is nothing in the entire world but Porthos.

It’s simple work after that, but slow work – they dress each other with shaking hands, foreheads pressed together and exchanging slightly dopey smiles. Aramis is alright with that – just glad to hear his laughter, just happy to see those smiles, to feel the way his shoulders have relaxed. Just happy he can wrap all his senses up in Porthos. Their kisses are gentle and frequent, and Porthos lets Aramis wrap up around him, hugging him tight as they kiss. The lanterns between them eventually hiss out and the light extinguishes, leaving them both in darkness, but neither makes a move to find warmth after the sweat and sex cools from their skins. 

“Think anyone heard us?” Porthos asks, and Aramis can hear the wicked grin in his voice even before his eyes adjust to the dark. His hands work at tucking Aramis back into his clothes, fixing his braces for him and adjusting his shirt. It’s too dark for him to attempt to find Aramis’ many belts, but this is enough for now. Aramis does the same for Porthos, helping him dress again and staying close in the warmth of his arms, unwilling to risk the night’s chilled air. 

Aramis laughs, glancing down at Porthos’ mouth and then smiling, brushing his nose to his. He presses his hands to Porthos’ chest, playing absently with the pendant hanging from his neck, then just feels the heartbeat pressed beneath one palm. “I’m sure they heard us all the way back in Paris, my darling.” 

“Probably,” Porthos agrees, and seems unspeakably proud of himself. Aramis traces a finger over the scar above his eye and hinges his hand so that he can brush his thumb across his bottom lip. Porthos grins and then kisses his fingertips for his troubles. Porthos whispers out, hot with promise, “Although they’ll certainly hear you in Paris soon.”

Aramis laughs and kisses him. When he breaks it, he’s still laughing. “Until then – there’s no place I’d rather be.” 

“Oh yeah?” Porthos laughs.

“Yes,” Aramis agrees, smiling – wrapped up in danger and wrapped up in Porthos. There’s nothing better, and in the wake of the sex, he feels downright chipper. He sinks against Porthos, wriggling into his lap and shivers happily when Porthos wraps his arms around him in turn. He kisses Porthos again, just because he can, just because he’s bold in the dead of night like this, folded into Porthos as he is. “Yes,” he whispers again, presses short kisses to Porthos’ full mouth. “Yes…”

“So agreeable,” Porthos laughs, voice breathless and – again, there’s that feeling of overwhelming warmth in his voice. 

Aramis bumps his forehead to his, and his smile is wobbly a little – and he doesn’t dare hope that Porthos won’t notice. Doesn’t care that he knows it instantly. 

“Only for you, darling,” he says. And it’s wonderful, it’s _perfect_ to feel this happy and satisfied – his blood still singing with the fear of discovery, the danger of being outside like this. And yet, in the end, he feels no fear – he’s safe. He’s always safe in Porthos’ arms. He always will be. 

“Mmm,” Porthos hums and his smile is teasing. 

“Now let’s see if we actually get some would-be soldiers tomorrow, yes?” Aramis sighs, playing with Porthos’ hair, kissing over his face and forehead, to his temples and over his ears, suckling on the gold hoop at his ear. He hears Porthos’ breathless laugh against his ear in turn. 

Although he regrets Porthos’ restraint in this moment, the next day in the midst of speed-training and other such exercises, Aramis silently praises his friend’s foresight – being sore when demonstrating proper thrust techniques and shot techniques, all while not arousing suspicion in d’Artagnan, would have been positively hellish had Porthos really fucked into him as Aramis had wanted. 

It’s all made worth it, though, as he shucks off his coat in the mid-day sun, feeling his shirt cling to him with sweat yet again, when he glances over and sees Porthos before a group of women and loading the pistols. He looks up at Aramis as he passes by, and his smile is filthy but secretive – and Aramis knows exactly what he’s thinking, and knows that it’s the same as Aramis’ own thoughts. Aramis leers back, bats his eyelashes once before he focuses on his duties. 

And when he adjusts his braces later, unwraps his blue sash and belt from around his waist so he can feel more air brushing through his shirtsleeves as he moves, he can feel Porthos’ heated gaze on him. He just smiles at him over his shoulder. He intends to get back to Paris as soon as he can, if only because that heated gaze is doing more to him than any gunshot or good fight ever could to set his blood ablaze. 

And above it all, what he says to d’Artagnan is right – this is the best way to know he’s alive. This is the only way he wants to know. He holds Porthos’ wicked grin in his mind’s eye and keeps it there, uses it as motivation as he stalks the barricade, as he fights a fight never meant for his own. He’s a soldier. He’ll always fight on. There’s only one man he could ever surrender to so fully, in the end. 

There’s only one man he wants to surrender to.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/), as always!


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